


Reborn From Fire, With Blood

by Ziggy527



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AND I THOUGHT BAD, CHAPTER TWO SUCKS WORSE THAN THE FIRST BUT PLEASE TELL ME HOW MUCH IT DOES, EVEN WORSE THAN I THOUGHT, F/M, HOLY FUCK THE COMMENTS, THE COMMENTS, UNBETA’D AF, You've been warned, also there's a kid but i know what the comments will be about, but Dany's gonna get some fuckboi dick first and she deserves it, eventual reconciliation between these fuckin fools, she's getting hers, thank you for reading, there's a good amount of Dany/Daario, they fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 06:18:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19056946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ziggy527/pseuds/Ziggy527
Summary: Dany is revived in Volantis.You know how it goes from there. More of a series of vignettes than an actual story.





	1. DAENERYS

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, ok, I lied about "A Wolf Apart". It's still not ready to be updated because Season 8 is still pissing me the fuck off. So here's another story I wrote. I'm still not ready to get into the headspace of a Jon I don't loathe yet, so who knows when that's getting updated. I've thought of pushing Lyanna's POV before him but it doesn't work, structurally. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this largely redundant, pretty shitty, but satisfying to me, story.

The first thing she is aware of is pain. Searing pain, starting from below her breast and spreading out from there to all parts of her. Her breaths come in great gasps, her body is as shocked as she is to be alive. She was dead, _murdered_ by the man she loved most in the world. Now she was on her knees, a cold stone floor beneath her, naked and cold but somehow alive.

“Daenerys Stormborn,” a voice, unfamiliar and female addresses her, “welcome back to the world,”

Kinvara, she calls herself, later, after she’s calmed some and wrapped a blanket around her. She says Drogon took her here, to Volantis and the Lord of Light brought her back. The wound at her breast is red and angry. A lasting gift of Jon Snow, who has marked her as they marked him.

She was carrying his child, before he plunged his dagger in her heart. He took that from her as well.

Everything hurts, everything _burns_ and it’s only later that Daenerys, the Unburnt, can laugh bitterly at the irony.

**********************************************************

The baby lived, or died and then lived, like her. She spends months in Volantis, hiding, fearful. Dany is as the frightened child she was when she was sold to Drogo, all those years ago. But the babe in her grows, slowly and seemingly normally. 

The priests and priestesses of R’hllor treat her as some kind of god, but she feels as far from one as has ever lived. She is tiny and small, alone and vulnerable, even with Drogon hovering around the temple, never far from sight.

Her child is all that matters, staying alive and safe for its sake. 

_HIs child, too_ a voice in her mind whispers, betraying her.

************************************************************

The pain of her rebirth is different from the pain of her baby’s actual birth. All these months, spent nourishing this child in her dead body, Dany expects nothing but a dead baby.

When her son arrives, the screams and wails are so loud as to wake the dead. He suckles at her breasts, both of them, even the one his father marked, greedily. She cries as he does, kissing his head and nuzzling her nose against his dark hair.

Content, he opens his eyes and looks up at her. They’re purple, like hers, blinkingly tiredly as he nods off, pressed safely against her chest.

Outside Drogon roars, welcoming his brother to the world, one dragon to another.

**************************************************************

It’s at night, when her son is sleeping next to her that she misses him. She sees his grey eyes when she closes hers, dreams of him when she sleeps. All she wants is to hate him, forget him, yet she can’t. Jaehaerys is proof of that. Jon Snow is a part of her, always. 

A few weeks after her son’s birth, she starts getting restless. The temple provided protection for her while she was pregnant. Now that safety feels like a prison. 

So she takes her son to meet her son. Jaehaerys seems unaffected by the dragon, but Drogon is awed by the baby. That’s when she knows it’s safe.

One night soon after, when the temple is asleep, she straps Jaeh to her chest and mounts Drogon, leaving Volantis behind, trusting her dragon to take her somewhere safe.

It takes a few days before she sees it and her heart soars.

Meereen. 

**************************************************************

They want her to be Queen again. That’s the word sent down by the council she left in place. Dany flatly refuses them. The people choose their leaders. 

Instead they come with another offer a few days later: she will be Queen but with no power. Her and Drogon will protect the freedom of the Meereenese and in exchange they will allow her to stay in her old pyramid. 

A home, they claim, a place for Mhysa to place her head and raise her baby. Staring at Daario as he offers the terms, feeling the stirrings in her, it’s easy to say yes. 

She has one condition, though.

“No one can know about my son.”

***************************************************************

“Let me kill him,” he begs, again. “Killing a King? I could do it. He deserves it for killing you.”

They are abed, in her chambers high in the biggest pyramid. Daario kisses the scar above her breast. 

“No. I need you here,” she orders, pushing him on his back, kissing him fiercely. “By my side, in my bed,” she continues as she rides him, chasing the pleasure. The _feeling_.

He finishes inside of her, like he always does. She suspects he wants a sibling for Jaehaerys, one that looks like him, not the man who is always between them. His seed will never take root inside of her, though. But she appreciates the sentiment.

Daario holds himself to her, tightly. “Never betray me,” she tells him, like she always does. He kisses her scar. “Never, Dragon Queen.”

When they’re done and he’s asleep, snoring lightly, she goes to her son’s room, just next door, and lays in his bed. Sleeping has been hard since she was brought back. So most of her nights are spent like this, in Jaehaerys’ bed, watching him sleep, his eyes fluttering beneath their lids, chest rising and falling with his breaths. He looks so like _him_ , his father. Her son’s eyes are purple, like hers, but the rest is all his father. 

Life moves through him, like any other child. 

It always makes her cry with relief.

******************************************************************

It is just past her son’s first name day when the ship “Cinnamon Wind” brings news from Westeros. At first she refuses to believe it. King Bran? An absurdity. Sansa as Queen of a independent North? She laughs when hearing it. But the ship’s captain hesitates upon some other bit of news.

“Jon Snow was cursed as an oathbreaker, kinslayer and Queenslayer and banished to the Wall, to spend the rest of his days alone as punishment for the murder of Queen Daenerys. The Unsullied wanted his head. This was a compromise.”

A flood of emotions take hold in her; satisfaction, anger, grief and a profound sadness. She thinks of a moment on the ship to Winterfell, when she was naked and wrapped up with him, when he told her how he hated the Watch, how they killed him. “A place of murderers and rapists and I, as a bastard was no better than ‘em.”

She had thought he meant to usurp her when he drove his knife into her. Instead, it cost him everything to do it. Did that matter to her? Should his plight matter to her?

“And now his Watch begins,” she mutters to no one, alone in an empty room, her company long departed.

Jaehaerys comes stumbling into the room and the moment is gone.

******************************************************************

Her son is wild. It takes all that she and her servants can do to keep him in line. One day, she catches him climbing up the tail of Drogon. It’s dangerous, to approach a dragon with a rider, when you’re not one, even for Jaehaerys. She’s able to reach the boy before anything can happen. Dany knows that Drogon would never hurt Jaeh, but knowing isn’t certainty.

The last time they were in Meereen, Drogon vanished. He made his home deep in the Dothraki Sea. This time, he lives in the Great Pyramid with her. The top levels have been burrowed out, a nest of fire and brimstone at the highest point of the city. Once a giant golden harpy stood at the apex of this structure. Now it is a living, breathing dragon, the guardian of the city. 

The people come to love their protector. They give tributes to him, pray to him. It makes her uncomfortable. 

_If only the people of King’s Landing did the same._

She doesn’t dwell on it, what she did, she can’t. The horror of it, the death and destruction she rained down upon innocent people. Sometimes it keeps her up, haunts her dreams as much as the grey eyes do. Her anger and fear and loneliness and grief consumed her until all that was left was rage. 

A dragon’s rage. Monstrous.

It’s enough to almost forgive him. Almost.

*****************************************************************************

Daario’s presence in her bed is a welcome distraction. It’s the rest of her life where it’s decidedly less so. He tries to push his way into Jaeh’s life. “A boy needs a father and his is unworthy of the title,” he says with her son in his lap, a toy wolf in their hands.

“You’re not his father,” she responds, her voice flat.

“But I could be,” he says, sending her son on his way. Jaeh goes running out of the room, leaving them alone “Why not me?”

 _Because you’re not worthy of it_ she thinks. Her sellsword’s pride has never been larger. Two years she’s been with him, the longest of any man she’s had. Longer than Drogo. Than Jon. There was something sad about it, The Dragon Queen and all she could land was a mediocre sellsword. But she knows he would never betray her.

“You’re not his father,” she repeats. Insists. He’s hurt by the denial. It’s not just a son she’s refusing him, it’s her. It’s the hope of a family.

Daenerys sees anger and pain in his eyes. With a glance around her bedroom, she gets on her knees and works his breeches, freeing his member and taking it in her mouth. She can grant him this, at least.

Later, it’s a pair of grey eyes she sees in her dreams, with the taste of another man’s seed still on her tongue. It’s not a betrayal, but why does it feel like one?

******************************************************************************

A fleet appears outside of Meereen causing panic. For the first time in years, Dany mounts Drogon, ready to do battle. These are her people and she will not see them to harm. As her black dragon soars towards the ship, a wave of nausea and panic grip her. She smells burning in her nose, hears screams in her ears. And she falters, pulling Drogon back.

She’s later thankful for it when her Unsullied pour off the ships and Grey Worm greets her with a hug.

It takes him some time to open up about what happened after her murder. He had wanted to kill Jon, but didn’t. To do so would have meant the death of the Unsullied, outnumbered by the many Westerosi surrounding the city. She sees the shame in his eyes and forces it away. 

“You served me well, Grey Worm. You always have.”

“We let traitor who murdered you live. We failed Daenerys Stormborn. Jon Snow should be dead.”

Daenerys says nothing at that. 

******************************************************************************

It is in her third year in Meereen when she finally gets a long expected visitor. Atop Drogon she spotted the sail on the boat in the Bay of Dragons. A grey direwolf on a white field. Stark. 

The years in Meereen hadn’t all been peaceful. Daario was sent to Astapor for months on end to quell a peasant uprising. Hundreds died because of it. The council in Astapor had asked for Drogon to come, but she had refused. A tentative peace had been reached. Yunkai had also suffered, not of violence but disease. The pale mare blew through the city like a storm, killing thousands. 

But this ship, this one ship was more of an ill omen than all of them. Her sins, grievous as they were, coming back to haunt her.

Ser Davos is the emissary who greets her. She receives him in her solar, not the old throne room. Daario and Grey Worm with her. Her Unsullied captain shows real anger upon seeing Ser Davos. The Onion Knight is with a man she doesn’t know. He smiles brightly and openly at seeing her. Introduces himself and his companion, Olyvar.

“Yer grace. It warms my heart to see you here. Alive.”

She wants to believe it’s true, but she’s wary. 

“I’m glad to see you, too, Ser Davos. It has been too long.”

They dance about for a while, exchanging old stories. Until she’s reached her limit.

“Why are you here? I know the people of Westeros hate me, perhaps they should. So why are you here?”

Ser Davos sighs, softly. 

“Most don’t hate ya, yer Grace. Some do, I won’t lie. But most don’t. As to why I’m here, well I come on behalf of King Bran the Broken. And his sister, Sansa the Wise, Queen of the North.”

She scoffs at that. Realizes how foolish all her titles must have sounded.

“And why would two monarchs halfway around the world be concerned with me?”

He shuffles uncomfortably at that, starts hemming and hawing. Daario has been patient the whole time, but it’s running thin. “She asked you a question,” he says, inching closer to Ser Davos. She raises a hand at him to stop, when the old man blanches at Daario’s aggressiveness. Olyvar backs off, too, having matched the sellsword’s steps.

“They’re scared shitless,” he admits. “For over two years they’ve been concerned. Sansa even came down to King’s Landing to discuss ya comin’ back from tha dead. Bran has been watchin’ ya, as well.”

A chill spreads down her spine at the thought. 

“And the babe.”

In an instant, she is standing, her chair sent to the floor. Ser Davos stands, too, hands in the air, trying to calm her. Daario has his daggers drawn, stepping towards the pair. Grey Worm’s eyes are full of fire and fury. They knew about Jaehaerys, her enemies. No one really did, only a precious few. She can feel her blood pumping harder and harder, fear coursing with it.

It is Olyvar who steps forward, puts a hand to his face and pulls, the skin coming off like a mask, revealing a familiar face.

“Arya?”

It takes a few moments to calm things down, but they do. The three of them move to the veranda, to talk more intimately. Grey Worm watches from the door frame, wary. They settle at a table, the food and drink placed before them untouched.

“I have no designs on Westeros. There is nothing there for me anymore.”

Davos and Arya grimace. The one name they dance around continues to go unsaid. Her curiosity is so strong she’s practically shaking. But her will is stronger, so she won’t be the first to mention him. Arya does.

“He doesn’t know, Daenerys. About you. Or the babe. He’s alone up north, the far north. The wildlings have left him alone, according to Bran. I wanted to go to him, but they won’t tell me where he is. Sansa and Bran think that when he finds out, he’ll come flocking to you. They’re not wrong. He will and they fear a Targaryen restoration comes with it.”

“He’s welcome to come here. Warn him though that he won’t like the reception.” She pauses for effect, “tell him that Winter is Coming. I think he’d like that.”

Their faces fall.

***************************************************************************

Davos and Arya stay for a few days. On one of their last days, she relents and introduces the pair to her son. Arya is on her knees, immediately, bringing the boy into a hug. Davos just stares at Jaeh. Before she realizes, Arya and Jaehaerys are running around the yard, chattering happily. 

“He looks just like him, your Grace.” the old man says, wistfully. His eyes haven’t left her son as he watches him move about the veranda. She watches him until he catches himself and blinks away some tears, shaking his head, slightly. “I miss him, your Grace. Never got a chance ta say goodbye. They just dumped him on a ship and that was that.”

She turns from Ser Davos, not willing to engage in this conversation, focusing instead on her son, who has a stick in his hands and is chasing his aunt around the pool.

“Tyrion said that Jon was all tore up about what he did, weeks later. I dunno if that helps at all, I dunno much. But I saw him dead and then he wasn’t and now you have that in common as well.”

It’s too much, it’s all too much. The words come spilling out of her.

“He did it to me. Murdered me and his son. When he came back, he executed the men who murdered him. It’s been well over three years, Davos, and he still draws breath. I still have it, you know? The knife? The one they pulled from my breast in Volantis? I dream about it, about finding him and driving that same blade into his heart, killing him. Did he ever mention to anyone how he did it? How he swore himself to me and then kissed me. All I wanted in that moment was him and he used that to get close and kill me. I was his family, I loved him. I’ve only had two family members in my life; the first was an older brother who abused me, sexually and physically and emotionally, the other was a nephew I loved and trusted, whose baby I carried and who stabbed me in the heart.”

She finishes with a great gasp, tears that she's long held at bay, unleashed and uncontrollable. The old man puts an arm around her, drawing her close. “Three, your Grace. You’ve had three family members,” he reminds her as he points to her son. Jaehaerys chooses that moment to speed past Arya and crash into the pool, sending his aunt, fully clothed, in after him. When they both emerge from under, they’re laughing together and so is Daenerys.

“He’s a treasure, your Grace,” Ser Davos says.

“He’s a beast,” she laughs in response, tears still in her eyes, watching her son suck water in his mouth and spit it back into Arya’s face. Her wounded heart feels as full as it ever has. She had never known a family. Was that her son’s fate as well?

The pair leave the next morning, Daenerys at the docks to see them off. Arya hugs her and whispers, “go to him” as they part. 

“Wolf,” Jaehaerys says sadly, from a balcony, as he watches the giant direwolf sail slowly disappear on the horizon.

 

*****************************************************************************

She spends months and months thinking about what Arya said. Drogon knows where Jon is, all she would have to do is fly North of the Wall and let her son guide her to him. But she’s hesitant. It’s been over four years and she still doesn’t know what she will do when she finally sees him again. So she doesn’t go. And pushes the thought of him aside.

Until her son comes to her one day. “Mama, where’s my papa?” An innocent question. That breaks her. Jaeh knows Daario isn’t his father. Which works well because they’ve never truly warmed to each other. Daario lacks the patience and imagination to truly bond with Jaehaerys.

Daenerys decides then, through tears that it’s time. 

She leaves Jaehaerys with Daario and Grey Worm. When her lover asks where she’s going, she flashes the knife she’s tied to her thigh. The knife that killed her. He smiles a deadly smile and kisses her deeply. “Be careful and strike true,” he whispers in her ear. She feels nothing at it. Grey Worm swears to protect Jaehaerys and she believes it. 

Drogon comes to her in the middle of the night, so her son won’t see her leave. 

For the first time in almost five years, Daenerys Targaryen is headed west. Drogon roars beneath her.

 

****************************************************************************

The cold hits her gradually as she flies over the eastern coast of Westeros, headed North. By the time she crosses over the gap in the wall Viserion made, she feels as if she’s frozen solid. It’s not much longer when she spies an outpost in the distance. 

It’s tough to decide what to do; land Drogon far away and walk in, pretending to be someone she’s not, or to land her son right in front of the people and demand Jon Snow.

She lands Drogon in the middle of the outpost, sending people scattering, snow flying in the air.

“Where is Jon Snow?” she bellows into the wind.

A man walks out of a building, his red beard instantly recognizable to Dany.

“Dragon Queen?” he asks, his voice full of surprise and wonder.

“Tell me where Jon Snow is, Tormund.” she responds, her voice sharp as steel.

“Take your dragon and fly northwest for a while. You’ll see his hut. More like a hovel, though.”

She’s back in the air before another word is uttered.

****************************************************************************

The hut stands in the distance. When she comes to the door of it, a pile of snow moves and stands on four legs. It’s Ghost, who shakes the powder off his body before staring at her with his blood red eyes. He comes to her with a sniff and a whine, nuzzling against her outstretched hand. The white wolf has gotten older, his moves slower than when she had seen him last. The moment between them passes and the direwolf ambles away, back towards the woods.

With a creak, the door opens and light floods a darkened room.

Inside is a mess, the smell being the first thing that hits her. The whole house is one room, no bigger than the massive bed she has in Meereen. A small hearth sits in one corner, the fire of it long extinguished. There’s a table in another corner, the carcasses of a few small animals hanging over it. In the final corner she sees a mound of furs. It takes a moment to realize that he’s under there, that he’s sleeping on a pallet, essentially. Just looking at it makes her back ache.

The mound of furs begins to stir and her heart skips a beat. She holds her breath for a moment and then realizes that Jon is stirring. He gets up, slowly, coughing and snorting loudly, and the furs begin to slide off him. When he turns towards her, she sees him finally and she knows what effect her murder had on him.

Jon Snow looks a wreck, his face, which is all but hidden under an enormous beard, unkempt and shaggy, is gaunt and hollow. The hair that she had once loved to run her fingers through, thick and curly like their son’s, is down past his shoulders. Matted and knotted and disgusting.

She expects him to be surprised when he sees her, but instead he sighs, sadly, in what seems to be resignation.

“Come to haunt me again?”

The knife is in her hand, hidden from his view. Dany stares at him, hard. “Maybe I’ve come to kill you, Jon Snow.”

“No, you haven’t, love,” he says, sadly, “I don’t deserve the absolution of death. Instead you’ll keep me alive and haunt me, sleeping and awake. Can we move past this, Dany, as you’ve threatened me with vengeance more times than I can count.”

He’s been haunted by what he did so much that he’s been hallucinating her both awake and asleep. The thought should make her pleased, his pain, his abject pain, was something she had long sought. Instead she feels empty and sorrowful. 

“This is where you curse me as a kinslayer, Dany.” Jon says, staring at her, as if trying to remember her every feature. He thinks she’s not real, that he’s imagining this. How many times had he done this before? Left alone with regret and memory. Alone. 

“Forgive me, nephew,” she responds, “death has dulled my senses.”

There’s a hint of a smile on his gaunt face, something hideously broken. 

“There’s nothing to forgive, love. You know I enjoy your visits, even if they’re not real. I will take you in whatever form I can get.”

Anger starts bubbling in her, both at him and what he’s allowed himself to become. 

“Look at you. Pathetic. When I heard you were exiled for my murder, a part of me rejoiced, was glad that you paid for killing me. I wanted your pain and I wanted to revel in it. Looking at you now, I don’t know why I ever wanted that. You killed me, but I lived and you died. I have a life, people who love me. You killed me and our son, but we both live in Meereen. You’re a ghost, a spectre, haunted and haunting.”

He’s enrapt at her ramblings, not moving an inch off his bed. She throws the knife at his feet in anger, it clatters around before resting on his leg. "When we last parted, you left something of yours with me, I'm here to give it back." Jon looks at it for a long while, and she realizes that a part of him recognizes she might actually be there. A sense of panic grips her and with one last look at him, she turns and leaves, quickly.

What she was expecting, she didn’t know, but the true horror of what has become of the man she once loved more than anything else in the world almost brings her to her knees. She can’t look behind, as he yells from the hut, she just marches on, into the wilderness.

It’s not long before he catches up with her, reaching out and grabbing an arm, twisting her back towards him. His eyes are wide and wild, his breath ragged.

“Is this real? Are you real?” He’s pleading with her, the look on his face so like their son, it hurts.

Drogon lands, right next to her with a _thud_ , sending Jon falling back on his ass. It takes but a moment for her to mount the beast and look back at Jon, prone and staring up at her.

“Come to Meereen and find out if this is real. If your son is real. If I’m real.”

Her dragon flaps its wings, taking to the sky, the force of which knocks half the hut over. And then she’s gone, the hut, the North, Jon, squarely behind her.

 

*************************************************************************

The first thing she does when landing in Meereen is go to her son’s room, crawl into his bed and hold him to her. She gets no sleep that night, just cries and cries and cries. Jaehaerys never wakes up, thankfully. 

It is over breakfast when Daario comes to her. “You went to him? Is he dead?” 

She supposes she owes him an explanation, but she can’t manage to think of one that would satisfy him. 

“Yes, he’s dead,” she starts, watching a brilliant smile bloom on her lover’s face, “he’s still breathing, but he’s dead, inside.”

The smile vanishes in an instant. “You let him live? You walked away from the man who murdered you without killing him?” He scoffs, disgust lining his face. Dany feels anger rising in her. “Never send a woman to do a man’s job, I guess.”

The dragon in her, long dormant since her resurrection, roars in her ears.

“You doubt my ability to kill, Daario Naharis? Go to King’s Landing and ask about the Dragon’s Wrath. You think me soft? Go talk to women about their burnt children, their destroyed lives. I did that. I did it. I wanted it, I knew what I was doing and I did it. What is one man, compared to that? What are you?”

Daenerys has finally given voice to the thing unsaid between them; she still loves Jon. And doesn’t love Daario. Her sellsword has pride, though. Like the last time she said goodbye to him, she feels little at the thought of his departure.

“Astapor can use some leadership,” she suggests, quietly.

He smiles darkly at that, chuckling to himself.

“I guess I should be grateful for the scraps I was given.”

Daario Naharis is escorted to Astapor by a hundred Unsullied.

**********************************************************************************

A cool breeze blows through the veranda, the sun setting behind her, forcing her to reach for the shawl, wrapping it around her bare shoulders. She is sitting on a stone bench, surrounded by lemon trees, her favorite. Sparing a glance towards the top of the pyramid, she sees the nest Drogon had created glow red from his flames. Dany smiles at the sight, a reminder that her fiercest protector was there, above her and Jaeh, ever vigilant.

Jaehaerys came running outside, his little footsteps echoing off the stone floor. “Mama, mama,” he yelled excitedly, while leaping onto her lap. A little past his fifth nameday, he grows bolder and bolder by the minute. 

“What is it, my love?” she asks, brushing aside the dark curls from his forehead.

“We have visitors!” he exclaims, his arms shooting towards the sky in excitement.

Before she can question him further, Grey Worm comes out to the veranda, concern etched across his face.

“My Queen. There is...someone here to see you.”

She takes Jaeh’s hand and walks back towards her solar. They see the wolf first, its red eyes and white fur, dirtied from the trip. Ghost ambles towards them without hesitation and Jaeh moves in response, without fear. “Wolf,” he says, reaching out to touch the direwolf, running his little fingers though its fur. After a few seconds, Jaeh hugs Ghost fiercely, as the wolf lays down on its side, allowing the boy to fall to the ground with it, still entwined.

It’s the gasp that draws her attention towards the door. It’s him, in the flesh, his hair and beard cut short, but still looking ragged from a long trip. Jon Snow takes a step towards her and Jaehaerys before he falls to the floor, on his knees, sobbing. She makes to move towards him, to comfort him, angry and unsure as to why that’s still her first instinct, when Jaehaerys speaks up.

“Mama, who’s this?”


	2. JON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's Jon's story. 
> 
> The comments were even more of a shitshow than I thought. Which, to be honest I enjoyed. My e-mail inbox didn't, that's for sure. Some of you folks edit your comments way too many times. But hey, let's work through our feelings together, huh?
> 
> Fueled entirely by spite, I wrote 5K words of shit in 24 hours because I guess having Dany try and get over being murdered by having meaningless sex with an ex is too far.
> 
> So here's impotent Jon, assholes. 
> 
> (He's not impotent don't fuckin' bitch about it in the comments)

The bite of the wind cuts through his furs, the cold seeping deep into his bones. He’d feel it, were he capable of feeling anymore. It’s been six moons since he arrived back at the Wall and the familiar numbness has settled in, like before. It’s a blessing, though. Better to be numb than to feel. Because then all he feels is pain.

“Val says the game is returning, slowly.” Tormund says, as the pair head through the Haunted Forest on horseback. “The dead fuckers got most of ‘em but they’re flooding through the dragon’s gap by Eastwatch.”

Jon just nods at the information, not even looking at his friend. 

She had waited for him at Eastwatch, standing atop the Wall. They had told him after he returned on his uncle’s dead horse. Ser Jorah said she had tears in her eyes when the horn blew and he collapsed in front of the gate.

He repaid that love with a knife in the heart.

“Fuck sake, Snow, you were always shit company. Now you’re worse. Who knows what the morning brings? Stop being a glum fuck.”

He knows what the morning brings. Nothing good. There’s nothing to say to his old friend. They ride on into the cold. 

 

*****************************************************************************

Flames flicker in front of him, red and orange and yellow and the occasional green. The smell of burning flesh fills his nose, the sound of screams echo in his ears. Death came from above, for thousands and thousands of innocents. All of this was done by the woman he loved. She killed these people for no reason. The fight was over, the city, the kingdoms, the Iron Throne was _hers_. Yet she still set the city ablaze.

And a small part of him admires her for it. A larger part loves her despite it. 

He walks through this city, a place of horrors for his family, both sides of it, and he’s almost grateful that it’s partially destroyed. 

Then he sees a woman, half her face burned, skin black and bubbling, sloughing off the bone, clutching a babe wrapped in a singed blanket, pushing it into his arms. “Promise me,” she rasps as she collapses to the ground, dead. The baby is gone, nothing but a bundle of ash that falls apart in his hands, lost to the breeze. 

In the distance her dragon roars. 

*****************************************************************************

Her laugh is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. The smile that comes with it might be the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. They are on a boat, headed to Winterfell, headed to his home. For a fortnight, he has been with her in every way a man can be with a woman. He has shared things with her that he’s only kept to himself. And as they lay on her bed together, the glee that spreads across her face at his story makes him happier than watching her come undone when she’s under him.

“It’s not funny,” he tells her, unable to hide his smile. That only makes her laugh harder, the thin sheet covering her sliding down past her breasts. Her purple eyes are alight with joy.

“You know it is,” she responds through her gasps, “you and your brother were covered in shit!”

It’s her utterance of the curse that causes his mask to break and he’s laughing with her. She turns her body towards him a moment later, still chuckling, draping her body over his. Her finger ghosts over his chest and the scars that mark it. Her lips replace her finger as his laughter dies down.

“You took a knife in the heart. And yet here you are.” Her lips trace down his torso, kissing as she heads south. With a pull, the sheet covering his lower body is gone. The familiar surge in his groin comes back as she hovers around his groin. Limp and small, his cock hangs in front of her. Dany takes it in her tiny hand.

“Such a small matter, your Grace,” he says, gasping as she palms it, stroking lightly. 

“Maybe now, Jon Snow,” she says kissing the tip lightly, “but this thing and I have an understanding and….ah. It awakens.”

His attempts at restraint are gone. She is as light as a feather as he lifts her lips to his, kissing her fiercely, turning her so she’s on her back. Staring into her eyes is his favorite thing in the whole world. Jon bathes in their violet light as he follows her into a beautiful oblivion.

 

*****************************************************************************

“I don’t know what really went down with you and the Queen. Don’t wanna know, in truth. Some things better left unsaid. But it’s been almost a year, Snow. You can’t mourn forever.”

Tormund hands him a skin of his milk, a truly abhorrent drink that he nonetheless drowns in the futile hope that it will push his nightmares away. The redhead sits down next to him, against the same tree. 

He doesn’t want to mourn. She leaves him with no choice. When his dreams aren’t of ash and smoke and screams and fire and blood, they’re of silver and purple and pink cheeks. A fortnight ago he woke the entire camp up with his screams in the night. No one ever said exactly what he was screaming, but he’s certain it’s her name.

“The past is gone. You keep looking behind ya and you’ll end up lost.”

Ghost sidles up to him and lays down next to him. Jon runs a hand through his white fur, finding the familiar comfort in his friend. 

“You’ve become your wolf, Crow. Pale and scarred; alone and mute.”

She finds him again in his dreams. His Queen is naked in front of the Iron Throne, blood pouring from the wound in her chest. Jon reaches towards the wound in his chest, reflexively. 

“You left more than you blade inside of me, Jon Snow,” she says as her hands move towards her belly, noticeably swollen, as the blood from her breast flows over it. 

Her smile is wild and spiteful, her laughter hard and brittle. It's what he remembers when he wakes up against the tree, a dusting of snow over him, sweating profusely. 

******************************************************************

His brother, cousin truly, but always brother was chosen King. 

It’s been almost two years and it’s still something that Jon has a hard time grappling with. The little boy, always at his and Robb’s heels, chattering excitedly. But that little boy is gone, dead. So are the older brothers he would chase. 

They resupply at Hardhome. The abandoned village has come alive. A rebuilt port allows for fishing and the occasional trading boat for the FreeFolk. 

Some of them kneel to Jon as he rides in. Once he would stop and make them rise, to insist he’s no better that any other person. Now he just doesn’t care. 

“Letter from Winterfell,” Styr says, handing Jon a sealed scroll with a grey wax direwolf covering the edges. He rips it open with some annoyance. 

The handwriting is Sansa’s, perfect and neat. Inside she talks of all the problems facing both kingdoms under the rule of the Starks. He feels a pang of guilt in him, he still loves his family. But their problems aren’t his, after all he’s not a Stark. 

In the North, Sansa faces the same hunger and disease issues that the FreeFolk do. Except the Lords of the North want her to marry, to carry on the Stark line. His sister finds none of the potential suitors adequate. 

Bran has put down a Dornish insurrection, brutally, from what Sansa intimates. He was able to use his greensight to find the network of caves in the Marches and put them to the sword. Thousands died in order to keep Dorne a part of the other Six Kingdoms. 

_Sometimes strength is terrible_ she whispers in his ear. 

“The wheel spins and the game goes on,” he mutters to no one in particular. Clenching his sword hand, Jon moves over to the fire, tossing the scroll into it. Before he realizes it, he’s outside the village, arm against a tree breathing heavily. 

When he lifts his head, he sees her, a vision in white, moving through the trees with grace. Her wound is bleeding profusely and there’s tears in her eyes, but it’s her. She’s coming to him while he’s awake now. Maybe his family’s madness has tainted him, too. 

“The shield that guards the realms of men,” she says, scornfully. “Guarded then from what?”

“You,” he whispers back. And then she’s gone. 

**********************************************************************

His tent is removed from the rest of his group. Over the years they’ve learned to give him a wide berth. If it’s not his surly nature, it’s his wolf, his constant guardian. 

She’s there one night, though. But it’s not his Dragon Queen, his Dany. Her lips are on his, but the taste is wrong. Hands move down his bare chest, but they’re bigger than hers. The blond hair is golden, not silver. 

“I’m stealin’ ya, King Crow,” Val purrs in his ear. Jon blinks a few times before coming out of his daze. Her hand is in his breeches, working his cock. But he feels nothing. She’s trying, desperately to make him hard but it’s not working. 

Her teeth take his lower lip and bite down, hard, drawing blood. Yet he remains limp. Val moves her head to his exposed dick, making to put it in her mouth when his hands come to her head, stilling her. 

Blue eyes find his and for a moment he sees her in his arms, looking up, as those blue eyes go dull and the life leaves them. Like Ygritte. Like Dany. 

“No,” he says firmly, pushing her away. She’s undaunted, though and pounces again, trying to get his cock in her mouth. Again, he pushes her back, this time harder and on her arse. Anger and embarrassment flash across her face. 

“Did she burn your desire off with the rest of ya?” She asks, bitterly. 

_Fire consumes, you fool. Especially a dragon._

The knife on her thigh is small, but sharp. For a second she thinks he’s reaching for her and then he rips the blade from her pale skin. “You want to help me?” He asks, darkly. 

The blade is at his chest, resting above the scar on his heart. “End me.”

He grabs one of her hands and places it on the hilt. Val’s face is full of emotion as he lets go, knife against his heart, her hands shaking. “Do it,” he urges. They stay like that for a heartbeat, then two. “Please,” he begs, tears in his eyes. 

She pulls back and spits in his face. 

“Coward!” He screams. 

Jon says nothing as she gathers herself. Nothing as she leaves, smacking the door of the tent as she goes, taking the knife with her. 

Another visitor comes soon after, as he stares into nothing. “Did you really think you could move on from me?” Her mouth is hard and the words cause blood to spill out from her pretty lips. 

“I don’t think, Dany.” 

“You know nothing, Jon Snow,” a different voice says as he turns from her. 

“Mad as Aerys. Mad as me.” 

He feels the ghost of a kiss on his lips. It tastes like ash. She never tasted like that. That’s what she left him. Ash. 

*********************************************************************

“Let it be fear,” she says, emotionless and blank, as she pulls away from him. He wants to reach out to her, kiss her, love her. But he can’t. She’s his aunt. It should be wrong. But then why does he feel empty without her? 

It’s only later, in the cold and ice, does he realize how he failed her. 

All she needed was him, any part of him. And he shut her out. 

The dream changes to an intimate one, with her riding him. She’s perfect, shining. “Dany,” he moans as he’s about to finish inside her, when she changes in front of him. 

She’s dead, her skin curdling, her eyes gone. The wound opens and blood comes forth, lots of it. More blood than in a person’s body. It’s covering him. In the distance a baby cries. 

He screams and screams. 

**********************************************************************

Jon settles on the northern edge of the Haunted Forest. Another joke at his expense as there’s only one thing haunted in this forest now. Only one undead spectre left around here. The nearest people are dozens of miles away. 

Everyone is happier for it. 

The hut he builds is crude and bad. But it stands and works. His days should be spent hunting and gathering, but Ghost tends to that. 

So he broods. 

He’s two years in the hut. His hair and beard become overgrown. Weeks and months go by without seeing another person. Eventually even his hygiene falls apart. 

Jon Snow is a ghost. Haunted by them. Living among them. Howling silently at the moon, like his wolf. Ghost. 

And then one wakes him up.

********************************************************************

He’s on his arse, in the snow as she takes off away from him. Part of him thinks she’s real. He felt her heat, the wind from her dragon’s wings. The rest of him thinks she’s an illusion. One more sign in his increasing Targaryen madness. That his coin is still spinning. 

It’s only when he gets back and sees _it_ , the knife he drove in her heart that he starts to believe. When it’s in his hand, drawing blood from his finger. That’s when he knows. 

Jon Snow collapses to his bed and laughs and cries and laughs and cries until he’s gone. 

The dream that follows is different. He’s standing on a giant veranda in a foreign city. It’s warm. Warmer than Jon has ever felt. He doesn’t mind it. 

In front of him is a woman, one he’s never seen before, yet one achingly familiar. She’s holding a small child in her arms, cooing over him. As he approaches the pair, their features become more defined. The woman looks like Arya; long face and grey eyes. The boy, no older than five, looks just like her. But with purple eyes. 

“Isn’t he precious, my love?” The woman is looking at Jon when she speaks. 

“I don’t know who you are, my lady. Or where I am.” 

“Oh, Aegon,” she sighs. He steps back at his name, his true name. The boy is placed on the ground and goes scurrying off, laughing. When he’s gone, the woman is on him, her gaze cold as ice.

“You know damned well who I am.”

He knows this is his mother. Lyanna Stark. When he was a young boy he used to dream of her. Except her eyes were kind then. Now they’re…

“You’re not a little boy, Egg. Kindness won’t work here. So I’ll have to do what other mothers have done before, use the rod.”’

She smacks him hard across the face, once then twice. “Get up, Aegon and go to your family. GO!”

It’s night when he leaves. Ghost trailing behind him. All he takes is his sword and the knife. 

*************************************************************************

The docks of White Harbor are bustling with activity. They’re also buzzing with his arrival. Even after over four years, people remember Jon Snow. Not his face, no, but his sword and more importantly, his wolf, draw eyes and whispers. He considered leaving Ghost up north with Tormund like he did in the past, but that would be a permanent goodbye. His wolf stays with him this time. 

He’s there barely half an hour when a man approaches him, a twinkle in his eyes. Claims to be first mate on a ship docked in the harbor. “‘Nymeria’ they call it, m’lord. Or your Grace. Or…”

“Jon is fine.”

“Jon, it is,” he says laughing. “This ship has been damned near round the world. Took the Princess Arya West of Westeros..”

Jon cuts him off and demands info on his sister. The man smiles brightly. Tells Jon about their years spent at sea. 

“I’ll tell as much as I can on the ship. You need passage out of here, I’m assumin’?”

“And I don’t have any coin, I’m afraid. You lookin’ for an extra pair of hands?”

The man laughs at that. “I was there, King Snow, when the dead came. You and the wolf can have my cabin.”

It dawns on Jon as he shakes the man’s hand he doesn’t know his name. 

“Olyvar,” he says with a smile. 

***********************************************************************

It took two weeks for “Nymeria” to arrive at King’s Landing. The Capitol was the last place Jon wanted to go, but he had no say in the matter. The captain set the destination before their arrival in White Harbor. Not that Jon had ever met the man. “He says he’s got the flux, but he’s a lazy cunt,” Olyvar said one day while in the mess. 

He spent most of his time at sea thinking of her, Dany. Not the ghost of her, the actual person in front of him, wind through her hair, fire in her eyes, a dragon between her thighs. Hours upon hours spent hoping she was real, praying he wasn’t mad. 

That like him she was reborn. 

The lad was beyond his comprehension, though. A son, of his blood, that was too much to hope. So he pushed him from his mind, as much as possible. But still, the boy seeped into his dreams. A laughing presence, soothing, calming. 

Ghost was his only distraction from the depths of his mind. The wolf had taken to the ship poorly, sliding and slipping around. Eventually Jon confined him to his cabin, using a spade and some rushes to clean his shit and piss. 

The plank is lowered at the docks. Olyvar thrusts a rucksack in his hands, filled with some clothes and food. “Captain’s orders. Says we can’t leave Princess Arya’s brother high and dry, or she’d have our heads,”

Jon smiles at the thought, shaking the man’s hands as he leaves, a pang of guilt in him. This is the closest to a friend he’s had in years. Hours spent talking and laughing and drinking with the man, time where Jon almost felt whole again. 

“I’ll keep your wolf here for the time being. Let me know if you find a ship to Essos,” the man says as he heads back to the ship. 

King’s Landing has changed in the almost five years since he left. New construction is everywhere, the sound of hammers banging nails, saws cutting wood, people barking orders, all fill his ears. 

The Red Keep looms above all, scarred but healing. Jon wonders about the rest of the city, its people and how they’ve rebuilt themselves since the Dragon’s Wrath. A part of him wants to wander the city and explore, but then he turns a corner from the docks and is greeted by a dozen gold cloaks. 

In front of them is a man he’s not seen in years. Ser Davos has his back to Jon, chattering aimlessly with them when they notice him. The old smuggler, Jon’s most trusted advisor in what seems like a lifetime ago, turns and smiles widely when seeing Jon. 

“There ya are, son. Been waitin’ for ya. Your kingly brother said you’d be here and well…” he pulls Jon in for a deep hug, laughing the whole time. “Your brother is always right, after all. Happy to say so this time, lad. I missed ya.”

When they part Jon notices that the gold cloaks have closed in around them. He sees the shame cross Davos’ face and realizes in an instant that they’re here to detain him. 

“Bran knows she’s alive, then?”

Davos takes a pair of manacles from one of the gold cloak’s hands, approaching Jon sheepishly. “Aye. He does. He and Sansa don’t wanna harm ya. They just don’t want you and the Queen together. Afraid you’d turn towards Westeros. Bring war.”

For an instant he thinks of pulling Longclaw and fighting his way out. A dozen gold cloaks? He might be able to live through it. 

But Bran is King. So he doesn’t pull his sword, just resigns himself to his fate. His armed guards lead him deep into the city, then towards the Red Keep. Ser Davos chatters away next to him, but all Jon can think about is his failure. Dany and his son, whose name he doesn’t even know, and they’re forever out of his reach. 

Each step up the castle’s stairway is one further away from them. 

“Ambush!” comes the yell from in front of them. “Ambush!” the rear guard responds. The sound of swords clashing, men screaming fills the cramped halls of the keep. 

He might be bound by the hands, but Longclaw is at his side, he can die a man, with a sword in his hands, his family on his mind. 

Then Ser Davos grabs him and pushes him against a wall and he’s falling, falling into the wet darkness. 

 

*************************************************************

When they surface again, Blackwater Bay opens in front of them. Just ahead is a skiff with a hooded man at the oars. Davos half drags him to it and they both manage to get in, breathing heavily, soaked to the bone. It’s only then that Jon sees “Nymeria” in the distance, away from its dock, sails out, headed towards them. 

“Start rowin, Clovis,” the Onion Knight says to the hooded man, who Jon can see has burn scars across his face. The man only grunts in response. 

“Sorry about the mummer's act back there, lad,” Davos says, sheepishly. “Your brother is a hard man to fool,” 

A thousand thoughts enter his mind all at once, clouding his mind. “Why,” he chokes out, “aren’t you Master of Ships? Won’t they come after you, now?”’ ‘

The old man laughs at that, yells to the sky. “Consider this my resignation, Yer Grace.” In the distance a murder of ravens chirp, loudly. He looks back down to Jon, “Never was much good to kings.”

The ship is in front of them, Olyvar and Ghost at the prow. Behind them the bells of King’s Landing sound. Ser Davos takes a key out of his pocket and unlocks the manacles, tossing them in the water. 

“Maybe I can be to a Queen.”

 

*********************************************************************

 

“This’ll all be for naught if they catch us,” Jon tells Davos some hours into their escape. Next to him, Olyvar snorts. 

“None of their ships can catch ours. ‘Sides, even if they could, it’d be hard to do it without rudders.”

The intricacy of the plan forces him to a seat. “Why? Why all this for me?”

Davos speaks up, seemingly talking to Olyvar and not Jon, “Give him a break, will ya, lass?”

“Lass?” Jon asks, confused. “Lass?”

Olyvar smiles widely. “Come, Jon Snow. Let’s meet the captain.”

When they’re in the captain’s cabin, he finds it empty, suspecting a trap, he turns quickly, hand on the pommel of Longclaw, ready to strike. He finds Olyvar behind him and in one smooth motion, he peels his face off, revealing another one underneath. It take Jon a heartbeat before he recognizes it, through the haze of his increasingly foggy vision.

“Arya?” he chokes out before the darkness claims him.

 

**********************************************************************************

_She calls to him in that darkness. “Nephew. Lover. Murderer.”_

When he comes to, he’s in a large bed, Arya above him, blade in hand. “Don’t move,” she says with authority, “You look like shit and I’m tired of it.”

They sit there in silence, as his sister works him over, bit of hair flying in the air. She’s older, carrying a few extra scars, but it’s Arya. Finally, his curiosity takes hold.

“Why help me get to her?”

She stops her hand for a moment, a strange look on her face. “Family,” she answers.

“Bran and Sansa are our family, too.”

His sister sighs, lowers the blade. There’s tears in her eyes. “They wanted me to kill her. And your son.” He tenses, breathing harder. “Bran said he was a monster. That Dany and Jaehaerys would bring Fire and Blood to the entire world unless I stopped them.”

Jaehaerys. His son’s name is Jaehaerys. A good name.

Arya is up and pacing. “Then I got there and I didn’t see the evil Queen I saw that day. The killer. I saw a broken woman, doing her best to keep it together. And the babe? He looked so like you, Jon. He was cute and funny and rowdy like Rickon. He’s my blood, too. I couldn’t do it. That’s when I chose.”

She’s crying now and Jon reaches out and pulls her to him, nestling her head beneath his chin, like when they were kids. They sob together.

******************************************************************************** 

It will take six months for them to get to Meereen. Ghost takes it poorly, but Arya’s presence helps him. She has a close bond with him, running and chasing him around the deck. 

Jon, though, needs to find something to busy his mind. So he learns. How to rig sails, tie knots. A ship has its own language and he does his best to learn it.

He finds himself with Clovis one afternoon, the sun blazing over their heads, as they spool line for a sail. Jon’s focus since he saw him has been on his face, the burn scars that mar it. The young lad is quiet, but his pain is a reminder of what his love did.

“I was there, too,” Jon starts, hesitatingly. “For the sack. Of the Capitol.”

Clovis looks at him with confusion. “I weren’t there.”

Now it’s Jon who’s confused. “Forgive me, lad. It’s just the scars. The burns. Figured the dragon did that.”

The young man laughs. “That’d be a story, wouldn’t it? I got it in the battles in the Dornish Marches. They wouldn’t kneel to King Bran. So we killed ‘em. But ‘fore we did, they threw pitch and flame on us.” He points to his face. “Some of it found the mark.”

Jon’s angrier than if Dany had done this to the man. He tries not to let the lad see it, so he places a hand on his shoulder and moves on.

His legs take him to Davos. He’s alone, looking at some maps in his cabin. 

“Tell me about King’s Landing after I killed her. Tell me about King Bran and his reign.”

Jon’s old Hand of the King sighs and sits. They spend hours talking and talking. The wheel still moves, from what he hears, crushing people underneath it, lifting others in kind. It’s a depressing notion. 

He sees a face in his mind, Tyrion’s, one he hasn’t thought of in years. “What we did,” the little man says. Jon hates him for it. 

“Flea Bottom burned ta the ground. Thousands o’ innocents died. But it allowed Tyrion ta clear it all out and bring in some sewers. Clean water. That’s not possible without the Dragon Queen. Now a hundred thousand people live there. Still poor, sure. But far less. I grew up playing in shit. Drinking dirty water. Kids there now, don’t. Does that make what happened ta all those people right?”

“I don’t know, Davos. I still see it, in my dreams. The burning.”

“Me, too, lad. It was a crime. And Daenerys Targaryen paid for it. With her life.”

 

*********************************************************************

Meereen is hot and dusty. Jon is too tired to care, to hate it. The six months wound up being almost eight. Storms battered them, they got caught in a slave revolt in Volantis and almost overrun with monkeys that jumped on the ship from an island. 

By the time they docked in Meereen, Jon was just grateful for the solid ground under him. 

He, Arya and Davos make their way to the large pyramid that looms over the entire city. Ghost follows, the people in the city allowing the wolf to have a wide berth, fear in their eyes. Her pyramid. As he makes his way, a familiar roar fills the air. Instinctively, Jon ducks, the memory of that day, rushing back. Around him, though, the people cheer Drogon. Those that saw him duck chuckle at him. 

At the main gate to the pyramid, Davos asks for Grey Worm. It takes some time, spent baking in the setting sun, but eventually the Unsullied captain arrives. When he sees Jon, though, he’s on him in a minute, knife to his throat. 

“Jon Snow break vow. Jon Snow die for it.”

“That’s for the Queen to decide, Grey Worm,” Davos pleads. Jon sees the hatred in Grey Worm’s eyes for him. He doesn’t blame him. He also sees the doubt in his eyes.

“Queen Daenerys decide,” he agrees. “No wolf.”

“The wolf is the queen’s old friend. I’m sure she’d want to see it.” Again he relents.

It’s a thousand steps and then a thousand more. By the time Jon makes it to the top of the pyramid, he’s exhausted. So tired that his mind is a haze of emotions. Before he can enter Daenerys’ solar, the guards remove his belt, Longclaw and the knife on it. Grey Worm’s hatred only increases upon seeing the blade. 

Ghost pays them no mind as he trots into the room.

With a shove, he finds himself in a richly adorned solar. His eyes, though are drawn to the toys, littered around the floor. Wooden swords, dragons, even a wooden wolf, are signs of his son’s life. It hits him like a hammer to the chest. 

Then he sees her, the sunset behind her, a shawl draped over her shoulders and their son in her hand. Alive, breathing. Here.

He falls to his knees, sobbing. 

“Mama, who’s this?” Jaehaerys asks, his small body leaning on Ghost’s flank.

“Your papa,” she says, her voice barely whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will there be more? Maybe? I dunno. I really need to get to work on "A Wolf Apart" and I'm clearly not good enough to handle two stories at once. Let's see where this goes, though. I'll say there's an epilogue and then read something about season 8 and want to kill Bran or something, I dunno.
> 
> I'm working through shit here, too.


End file.
